Lesbian moms’ baby is kidnapped. Call 911. Don’t send a card.

While doing some research, The Other Sarah, Director of Orifices and Copy Editing, came across this greeting card. (Seriously people, we needed a Director. Someone has to be in charge of all the assholes in this project and correct there their spelling.)

mom card

 

Are you getting a creepy feeling? Yeah! Me too! Because the caption really should read “Moms! Alert! A big hairy man has stolen your baby!” Although, I’m pretty sure that no one sends a greeting card for that. Too slow. Dialing 911 is way faster.

But maybe I’m being too alarmist. There are some other perfectly reasonable explanations for the photo on this card:

1. The son is actually the guy with the hairy arm, and he is too shy to be in the picture AND he just happens to be holding a newborn baby dressed in a blue outfit.

2. It’s the doctor’s arm. And therefore I have a follow-up question: How did they get that baby cleaned up and dressed so fast? And can you come over to my house and help out?

3. The moms are not out of the closet, so even their arm can’t identify as gay. Or maybe their arm is transgendered.

4. Neither of the moms was strong enough to hold up the baby.

5. Some women have arms this hairy. Touche.

6. The artist added the arm to be sure that we all felt the masculinity of the new baby, because boys are often emasculated in our society by the silly pajamas and the baby hats with the pink accents that are issued at every hospital in America. So the artist has added the hairy arm to make a political point in defense of men’s rights. Well played!

9. This is Tina Fey’s baby, and someone leaked this picture from the cover of her sequel to Bossypants called Babypants.

If none of those 9 reasons resonate with you, and you really do just want to congratulate two new moms on the birth of their son, might I suggest 7LM’s more simple, less hirsute options?  We make them for dads, too – – let us know if you find any of them unintentionally creepy.

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© Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

What to wear to a party with your possible twin

Sometimes things really are worse when you’re gay. I know I have spent a lot of time and energy on this blog trying to convince you that we’re just like everyone else, and all of this is just a fun, big, good time. But that’s only if you’re not going a party at a friend’s house, which we did last week. Because after the stress of finding a babysitter, comes the stress of figuring out what to wear.

Pam: What are you going to wear?

Me: I don’t know. Probably a dress

Pam: I was going to wear a dress.

Me: I think it’s OK if we both wear dresses.

Pam: You should wear pants.

Me: You should wear pants. I get hotter than you.

Pam: You are not hotter than me.

Me: Yes, I am. A guy hit on me at the gym just this morning.

Pam: That’s because you look desperate when you’re trying to find the 10-pound barbells.

Me: True. I am desperate. I can’t lift anything heavier.

And so it goes. Because there are really two goals I have when trying to get ready for a party. The first one is successfully combine my two signature looks — uncrushable-office-polyester and grubby-parent — to create something fabulous. And second, to not look like Pam’s overgrown twin. Or like these people. (Click the link to see more couples you can’t tell apart.)

Pam and Sarah

Here we are! Both wearing white shirts. I know. Confusing.

But in case you need some tips on how to tell us apart, here is a short list:

1. I have two tiny rows moles on my left arm that form straight lines of three and three.

2. I have bigger feet.

3. I have my ears pierced three times. Pam has hers pierced four times.

4. I do not have a belly button ring.

5. My hair is black. Pam’s is really dark brown.

Or possibly the best clue of all. Pam looks more Asian than I do. For real, some friends asked Pam if she was half Japanese last night. She not. She’s half Mexican. Same thing.

And here is a video, pretty much, of our life. The Better Half, Episode 1: Going Out.

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 © Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

I’m not going to the wedding. And no, it’s not because I’m gay.

A friend that I adore is getting married in two weeks. (Holy shit, it’s in two weeks!) But I’m not going to the wedding. I went to the bacherolette party, as you might recall. Except that you might not, because I think the whole post may have been overshadowed by my coming out as a strap-on dildo owner.

But after the party, I was torturing myself about whether or not to go to the wedding, because it’s hard for me to leave the house. Literally. I have children. And my parenting is only 50% good, so it takes two of us to make this thing work. And when one of us goes away, like we’ve each been doing a lot this summer, then the whole thing works half as well. And the strap-on dildos start complaining about EVERYTHING, because they are lonely. And the kids don’t like it much either. And the dog does not get walked.

So, I wanted to write this post to publicly explain myself, because I’m gay, and I’m defensive. And I just want to be sure that everyone knows that I’m not going to this wedding because I’m LAZY, and NOT because I’m resentful that I can’t get fully, legally married. Or that straight people make me uncomfortable. Some of my best friends are straight. For real.

s-and-e

But I don’t call them straight to their face: “This is Lisa,* my straight friend.” Because that would be awkward for her. But I do like to ask them if they know other straight people that I know. And if they are single, I always try to introduce them to my other straight friends, so they can hook up. Because I don’t want them to be lonely, like my dildos.

So this is just all to say that I won’t be at THE wedding. But I hope you’ll still come to my wedding next September, friend (the straight one). But if you don’t come, I’ll understand, because some of my best friends are straight, after all.

*Names have been changed to protect anonymity

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© Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

That moment when you realize your friend has new boobs.

This year, I got together with a friend who got new boobs. And yes, I am being intentionally vague to protect the children that are most likely reading this blog. But here’s the awkward part, I didn’t notice that they were actually new.

I mean, I guess I did, but bras can do amazing things. And I’m pretty sure they could do that. But maybe not. I don’t know. I’m not an expert on this subject. Actually, I do have some fairly specific expertise on this topic. Because I have probably held a few more boobs in my hand than the average American woman. But certainly not nearly as many as a mammography nurse or a lactation consultant. Holy crap, people! I’m not a slut!

Anyhow, back to the new boobs on the old friend. She had to point them out. And it was so awkward that I don’t even really remember how it went down, because I was traumatized by the whole event, and now it is a repressed memory that has re-surfaced just in time for this post. I must be healing.

Her: “Did you notice my implants?”

Me: “Uh, yes. I guess. They look great! Er. Good. Am I allowed to talk about your breasts?”

Her: “Well, I thought you might not have noticed.”

Me: “I noticed they looked a bit bigger, but I was raised by proper Anglophiles, and we don’t talk about people’s breasts. Or bodies, at all. We only discuss napkin rings, vacation homes, concertos and the Royal Family.”

Her: “What do you think? I didn’t want them to be too big.”

Me: “If you like them, I like them.” I wish I would stop saying I like them.

Her: “They’re a B.”

Me: “Nice. And I’m not going to say anything else, because then you’ll probably want me to touch them. That’s how these conversations usually go.”

Her: “Really, this happens to you often?”

Me: “Yes, every week, practically.”

That last part was a total lie, but what else could I say. I needed out. But now that we’re back in. So help! What do you say when your friend gets new boobs? And yes, I checked, this is not in the book “How to Win Friends and Influence People,” so help me! What are you people good for?

carnegie

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Saying goodbye to a friend. And there’s just nothing funny about that.

Most of the time, I use this little space on the web to point out stuff that is funny or ironic, but today is not one of those days. Because I can’t think about anything else to write about except for a life lesson that I had this week that came in the form of a friend whose funeral I attended. She was 38 and a mother of four when she died of breast cancer on July 26. This is her.

bridgette

 

And I know what you are thinking. That woman is frigging gorgeous, and she is. This is a picture of her during her cancer treatment! And if you think this picture of her is gorgeous, you should see her heart. It’s infinitely more beautiful and longer lasting than this beautiful face.

But what is the lesson in all this for me? (Because this blog is all about me, of course.) Well. I used to be jealous of Bridgette. According to me, she had the perfect family, she made friends easily, she was beautiful, and an athlete and had the perfect body. I could go on, but I think you’re getting my drift. She was also married and had two kids. I wanted to be married and have two kids. She had the perfect life.

Then, a year later she got divorced. My first indicator of imperfection. And shortly after that she met a new love, also someone I knew and cared about. A quiet guy, who is so kind, and has the same laugh as my brother. And they blended their families to make three kids, and then had a baby to make four. She was back to great, and I was no longer as jealous, because I knew her better by then. I saw more of her pain, and more of her heart, which made her more wonderful to me which, ironically, made me less envious not more. She was not perfect, anymore. She was real.

Then, Bridgette got cancer which ate away at her like some sort of zombie terrorist for months. It didn’t seem to matter what kind of chemo or drugs were thrown at it, the cancer persisted until it had consumed the critical parts of her. The parts that let her breathe. And by Monday, we were all gathered to say goodbye to her and to weep for her husband and her children, who only have memories and photographs left of their mother.

And that same day, the day we all cried together, I got this in my inbox.

jealous

And it was a slap in the face. Because six years after I met Bridgette for the first time, I am married (or getting married at least). And I have two kids. And a perfect body, because that body is here for me to enjoy another day with everyone. And this isn’t so much about pointing out what I have now that she doesn’t, but to say that comparing is a waste of energy, a waste of the real opportunity to know ourselves, and mostly a waste of love.

If I had let my jealously get in the way of my love and admiration for Bridgette, I would have never come to know her as the beautiful person that she is. I would have robbed both of us of the love that we did have for each other, small that it is. I will miss her, but her life and her death have given me a gift. The opportunity to appreciate mine.

Thanks to tinybuddha.com for the slap in the face. 

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© Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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